I VOTED FOR ERAP (HOW STUPID OF ME)

October 9, 1999 Inquirer

I was looking for a winner who would not sell out to foreign interests and, in 1998, Joseph Estrada was not only the most likely to win the presidential elections, he also seemed to be the least likely to sell out, going by his vehement No! in 1991 to the continuedpresence of US military bases and US intervention in our economic affairs and, later, his avowed love for the masses.

I thought the No! was rooted in some sense of history and the slogan “Erap para sa mahirap” came from a real and informed bias for the poor. I thought that even if later it were all that could be said of him, it would be good enough, mabuhay si Erap! I even thought his sanggano ways were made to order, perfect for staring down the Americans and bullying them into giving us better terms all around.

Instead, horrors! it’s us, the nation, that he’s bullying around, ramming the VFA down our throats last May, and now fast-tracking changes in the 1987 Constitution that would remove what little protection we have against foreign predators, all in aid of globalization. It’s the mother of all sell-outs and our heroes must be turning in their graves.

My only consuelo (de bobo) is that, had I not voted for Erap, he would have won anyway. Given his popularity with the masses, there was no avoiding or preventing an Erap presidency.

I suppose we are meant to suffer this chapter in our history (the economic and political and intellectual pits) seeing as it is only consistent with, and the logical outcome of, recent chapters that saw the nation opting for a professional housewife, and then a professional soldier, for President, never mind that she was a political neophyte, never mind that he was an intellectual lightweight, we didn’t want anyone too brilliant and sophisticated, not another Marcos for sure.

Well, now we have a professional actor, an intellectual featherweight, reciting a globalist script, which tells us that he is not pala the man of the masses he made / makes himself out to be (artista talaga) but a man for the rich, that is, the business community here and the business cartels abroad.

Times have changed, the President says, since the early nineties when he said no to the US bases — then, we needed to get the Americans out; now, we need to get them (and other foreign investors) back in. It’s the only way, he says, of raising the money for the infrastructure that we need to be globally competitive, which, he promises, would redound to the benefit not of the rich but of the poor.

Unfortunately, the promise is basedon the myth that the gains that free trade and globalization would bring to the business community would trickle down to the masses and improve the quality of their lives. In fact, the trickle-down theory has long been discredited. After four decades of foreign investors and their export-oriented “development plans,” the country has little to show for it other than a few million rich and relatively rich vs. 50 million poor people and a ravaged environment.

Contrary to Erap’s propaganda, Charter change and globalization will not usher in a new economic order that would alleviate poverty by distributing wealth more equitably. It would only (if more intensively and easily) continue with the same economic order, the one dictated by the International Monetary Fund and World Bank for the US government and its cronies (American transnational corporations), that has been exploiting our natural and human resources all these years for the profit of a privileged minority while marginalizing the majority of Filipinos.

What’s a million or so jobs that globalization might bring when millions and millions of Filipinos are unemployed and under-employed and the population ever increasing? What’s so great about high-tech infrastructure when it’s obvious that only the rich (and some of the middle-class) minority would have any use for most of it?

Anyone who reads, anyone who has a sense of the larger picture, particularly of globalization as an imperialist scheme to keep the United States and the European Community rich and powerful and (countries like) the Philippines poor and beholden, cannot but snort and fume at the President’s agenda and propaganda — twisting things around (just like Marcos used to do) and dismissing anti-chachasectors as either communists or anti-poor.

So what’s Erap really up to, what’s the “hidden agenda”? Many suspect that he’s just paying off political debts, fulfilling promises he made to the businessmen here and abroad who financed his campaign and who would profit from an open economy. As many suspect that he’s after the removal of term limits, which would allow him (or his chosen few) and his multi-extended family to run again and again and again for spurious re-election a la Marcos, with and for the perpetual support of the biggest imperialist of all time, supercop America.

Erap denies it all, of course: the VFA was a done deal, thanks to FVR, and he has no interest in a second term, the job is too stressful. If true, it might also explain why he is in such a desperate rush to open up (down) the economy — at least then, there would be some growth, never mind how limited and skewed in favor of the rich and famous, during his watch. At least he would have something to show for his six years in office, which could, in the final analysis, be all he’s after – to exit in a blaze of glory, never mind who gets burned.

Anything for a rave review. Artista lang kasi.

Imelda’s Boy

Inquirer January 25, 1999

Book Review / America’s Boy by James Hamilton Paterson

Being familiar with James Hamilton Paterson’s fiction (Ghosts of Manila and Griefwork) and non-fiction (Playing with Water), and liking his elegant British prose and insights on the Filipino psyche from many years of residence in these islands, I couldn’t wait to get a copy of his latest work, America’s Boy / The Marcoses and The Philippines, certain that he had something new to offer, or why would he bother.

To my great disappointment, the only thing new is that Paterson has revealed his true colors: loyalist and white, as in white trash, fiction posing as fact, as in whitewash, touching up the Marcos myths (he was no thief, he was rich to begin with; she isn’t mad, she’s an inspired subversive) and just in time, what a coincidence, for Imelda’s bombshell of an admission that they “owned practically everything” in her heyday and that she is poised to file a P500 billion lawsuit vs. bad Marcos cronies (greedy dummies) who refuse to surrender Marcos assets to the family.

The Filipino-history part is entertaining enough, in prose less elegant than sensational, quick and candid and ironic, bashing old and new ilustrados, bashing imperialist America, exposing Marcos and Imelda, with the juiciest inside stories, some of it old hat (Yamashita’s treasure), some of it new and intriguing (4000 tons of gold) if anonymous and dubious, but I give Paterson the benefit of the doubt (he must have done some research) because it’s all too interesting,indeed what if it’s all true.

But it’s not all true. The martial-law and EDSA parts are jolting, agitating, patently partial, barely researched. His earnest defense of the conjugal dictatorship and its excesses on grounds of cultural idiosyncrasies and American collusion raises my hackles, impossible to stay calm, to suspend disbelief, not when I know better, specially about the EDSA Revolution.

In defense of his view that Ferdinand Marcos was a heroic, if tragic, figure in the time of EDSA, Paterson cites the “extraordinary” moment on live television when Marcos denied Fabian Ver permission to bomb the rebel camp that was then surrounded by human barricades. “To many of those who knew and worked with him,” Paterson writes, “this is still regarded as Marcos’s finest hour. It was the moment when, no matter what orders he might have given in the past in the name of expediency, he refused to give the instinctive datu’s command that would have translated into wholesale slaughter.”

How romantic of Paterson, and how naïve, to fall for Marcos’s palabas. In fact, that extraordinary exchange was pure sarsuela, a (failed) ploy to scare the people away from EDSA, and, incidentally, a response to Pope John Paul II’s plea for a non-violent resolution of the conflict, and to the US Congress’s threat to cut off all economic and military aid to the Philippines should violence break out.

In fact, Marcos and Ver had long gone ballistic and given the kill-order but the Marines, led by General Artemio Tadiar (at EDSA/Ortigas on Day 2) and Colonel Braulio Balbas (in Camp Aguinaldo on Day 3), kept defying these orders. When Marcos had that exchange with Ver on nationwide TV, he was just being his wily old self, making the best of a bad situation by pretending to be the good guy (look, ma, no bloodshed), hoping to fool Washington D.C. and the Vatican, if not the Filipino people, a little while longer.

Paterson’s problem is, he swallows hook, line, and sinker the loyalist version of EDSA that blames the United States for Marcos’s fall. Marcos was America’s Boy, he says, only until Ninoy’s assassination, whereupon the Americans started to plot the dictator’s downfall and to make peace with the ilustrada widow Cory, setting off the chain of events that led to EDSA. He insists that the Americans planned the entire operation, all the way to the abduction of the Marcos gang and the flight to Hawaii. A story that has long been discredited.

Whatever the CIA was up to, the State Department was playing the situation by ear, being very careful how they dealt with Marcos because Ronald Reagan would brook no moves against his friend. In fact, the Americans were in no rush to replace Marcos until a more likely and desirable candidate other than an anti-bases housewife emerged. In fact, the Americans were as stunned as anyone by the display of People Power that forced Marcos out and moved Ramos and Enrile to give way to Cory (at what price, we should wonder). And in fact, the Americans did intervene, but only on Day 3 (the battle was practically won), and only to offer the Marcoses a way out of the Palace.

According to my research, Marcos could have made it to Paoay on his own whether on wheels or with wings: there were other escape routes available to him that Tuesday evening, Day 4. Carloads of security personnel bound for Clark Air Base were able to leave the Palace grounds undetected by the crowds outside; presidential choppers, pilots, and crews had been on stand-by since Monday morning, waiting to fly him anywhere he wished. Even rebel defense minister Juan Ponce Enrile had offered him safe passage out. But Marcos opted to trust the Americans instead, his fatal mistake.

JUSMAG General Teddy Allen had been ordered by US Ambassador Stephen Bosworth to take the Marcoses anywhere they wished. But Marcos informed Allen too late of the destination and Allen found out too late that the Ilocos airport had no lights for a night landing, thus the Marcos party was forced to spend the night in Clark. There, Marcos and Ver wasted no time working the phones, mustering support for an Ilocano army that would re-take Manila. Dismayed, his ministers tried to talk Marcos out of the scheme. Worse, one (possibly all) of them went farther and reported the matter to Enrile and Ramos who, in turn, relayed the news to, and impressed upon, Cory and Bosworth that Marcos should not be allowed to get to Paoay. “Nabigyan tiyak ng rallying point ang puwersang loyalista at pinag-agawán tiyak ang Maynila. Hindi kami makapayag na mangyari iyon habang pinapatatag pa namin ang puwersa ng gobyernong Aquino,” Ramos explained when I interviewed him in 1991.

Unfortunately for Marcos, People Power had by then wrought its magic, moving Reagan at last, as Enrile and RAM had been moved, to give way to and support Cory. At 2:30 a.m. Wednesday, the Marcos party was awakened and told to prepare for the flight to Guam. That — helping Marcos escape from the Palace and removing him from the country — was the extent of the Americans’ part in the February revolt.

Ninoy Aquino’s part was infinitely larger, equally so the people’s part, but Paterson shrugs them and EDSA off: “Substituting an oligarch for an autocrat was no kind of revolution.”

Indeed. But that is a verdict on what happened AFTER the revolution, when the elite had taken it over, and that is no reason to ignore EDSA.

To ignore EDSA is to miss out, as Paterson misses out, on core dimensions of the Filipino psyche—the revolutionary impulse, for one—and on a major sector of Filipino society, the silent middle-class masses, who made EDSA happen and who can make it happen again, given a similarly (hopefully better) informed and motivated environment.

Unfortunately Paterson’s book is out to intrigue rather than inform, which does not help the cause any. Worse, he’s stuck on Imelda, and that’s the most boring part of all.

Rooting for Bill and Hillary

Inquirer 28 September 1998

There is much to be said for transparency and morality in government, but there is also no denying the right to privacy that is essential to the psychological well-being of every individual human being, be he or she a private citizen or a public official. In continuing to persecute US President Bill Clinton, the Republicans go too far. First the lascivious Starr report on the Internet, then the raw videotapes of Clinton’s grand jury testimony on television, what next? Video taped reenactments of the Oval Office encounters, Series 1 to 10?

Clinton’s critics have lost all sense of proportion, anything to weaken the Democrat in the White House, never mind the hypocrisy, never mind the damage to society. Likewise, the press, especially cable TV news, especially CNN, goes too far, seizing on the scandal, feeding on the frenzy, capitalizing on the demand for information, the more salacious and ugly the better, let the chips fall where they may.

Unfortunately, public well-being is not always served by a surfeit of information, especially when it’s sex-related and explicit and therefore inappropriate for immature audiences. Clinton deserves censure, indeed, for having behaved so mindlessly while in office (literally), but he doesn’t deserve (no one does) to be treated so vilely and exposed so viciously for what is at most a low misdemeanor. What married man does not lie about sexual indiscretions, if only to spare (if belatedly) the wife and children from heartache?

Filipinos are right, it could never happen in the Philippines. Here a President would have no trouble keeping the law and media at bay with regards to his private life. Here, an apology a la Clinton’s (the more contrite, the better, of course) would suffice to appease offended souls (at least until the next scandal), and any calls for impeachment would fall largely on deaf ears. When it comes to consensual adult sex, Filipinos will pay lip service to the sixth commandment, a formal acknowledgment of society’s sexual mores in aid of peace and order, but that’s about all. The Catholic layer is a surface thing, like icing on a cake, our best feet forward. Beneath the civilized mask we are a people in touch with our sexuality, and how one deals with it in private, whether physically or spiritually, solo or with a partner, monogamously or polygamously, same sex or different, quickie or kinky, for free or for a fee, is nobody’s business but one’s own.

This is not to say, as some Filipino machos suggest, that we are a sexually liberated or sophisticated people. If we were, we would have sex education programs, birth-control pills and condoms for the youth; pornography would not be illegal; and sexually transmitted diseases would not be on the rise.

The traditional macho defense (falling back on biological determinism, the notion that men can’t help it, they get hard-ons) is programmedinto their genes in aid of propagating the human species. But there’s nothing sophisticated or worldly wise about it. Rather, it’s all about self-indulgence and vainglory, and Filipino women learn to live with it and deal with it, each in her own equally private way.

Ironically enough, it’s the Americans who are trying to be sophisticated and adult about sex. The sexual liberation of the ’60s (free love) that peaked in the ’70s (women’s lib, gay lib) regrettably brought sexual disease to America in the ’80s (AIDS), and the ’90s has seen an attempted return to monogamy (full circle) with a safe-sex twist – it doesn’t have to be life-long, it can be serial or one-at-a-time, which at least limits one’s chances of catching the deadly AIDS virus. For the irrepressibly promiscuous like Clinton and Lewinsky, AIDS prevention advocates recommend safe-sex or alternative rituals such as condom-protected intercourse, mutual masturbation, anything that brings pleasure (including mint and cigars) without bodily fluids being exchanged. At least Clinton was practicing safe sex.

Unfortunately for Clinton, the ’60s also saw the human mind moving from fragmented scientific thought to a new wholistic (or holistic) view of life that has since influenced attitudes and found applications in almost every aspect of human life, particularly in medicine, psychology and the environment, even in sports, the military, regional planning and world peace. New age wholistic thought views a person’s body, mind, and spirit not as separate and independent parts but as interconnected and integral parts of a creative functioning whole. And when a person is whole, when body mind and spirit are one, sexual energy is creative power that can be controlled and transformed and expressed in higher ways, from healing the self and other wholes to recreating the world.

This is where Clinton’s most strident critics are coming from. The new age notion is that a man in Clinton’s position should have been capable of mastering his lust and withstanding the temptation posed by Lewinsky. And I suppose they’re right. If he had said no, who knows, all that pent-up libido might have been harnessed and applied to the crafting of a more creative response to Arab terrorism than a bomb for a bomb. If he had said no, all that energy wasted on depositions and apologies might have been put to better use responding judiciously to the Asian economic meltdown, rethinking free trade and globalization, and reinventing the IMF.

But really, it’s all too much to ask of any president so soon after the examples of JFK and LBJ and Miterrand. And it’s too soon to be harsh and unyielding when the majority of Americans seem inclined to forgive the guy. After all, he has confessed and apologized, and he’s been punished, humiliated, enough by the media and the Internet exposure. The Republicans are now in a position to draw a line beyond which it is indecent to dwell, if only they were seeing straight.

The media, of course, cannot be expected to lay off and give the guy and his wife a break when it’s the rating-est story ever, bigger even than Diana and Dodi, or Charles and Camilla.

Love, sex, and revolution in a “landscape of despair”

Book Review: My Sad Republic by Eric Gamalinda, Centennial Literary Prize 1998, Best English Novel, U.P. Press, 2000

Inside and outside of my sad country,
it is desolation that reigns supreme

Francisco Baltazar (1789-1862)

This treasure of a novel that won Eric Gamalinda a million bucks in the Centennial literary competition firmly establishes him as first among his peers writing in English.

Reading My Sad Republic is like reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, or is it Isabel Allende’s House of Spirits, the way Gamalinda’s knowing prose brings alive not only the factual but also the “fictitious” (legends, fables, rumors, gossip) as well as the ironic in the sad history of the people of Negros in the time of the Philippine revolution against Spain that segued into the Filipino-American War. A time of strange signs and visions, labyrinths and lacerated souls, miracles and heresies, death and desolation, along with some very hot sex (being also a passionate if deadly love-triangle) and a dash of friar erotica on the side, in the dying decades of friar rule.

The parish priest of a town too far from anything to matter was inserting a sacred host into the lips of a native girl’s vagina. The priest (let’s call him Padre Batchoy) was on his knees, a position he found necessary but uncomfortable, because he was not used to kneeling and his massive weight made his kneebones ache. He was naked as the tonsure on his head…

There’s more but it’s a minor, if delightfully scandalizing, sidelight (along with some marathon jungle sex) to the lead story of rich-girl-poor-boy who fall in love and might have run away and lived happily ever after had not a ruthless tisoy come between them.

Asuncion Madrigal, rich girl of One Hundred and Seventeen Names (her paranoid mother had her christened with all the names of the Holy Virgin to protect her from all evil), is tisay heiress to a sugarcane hacienda where poor boy Dionisio “Isio” Magbuela is a farmhand, a sugarcane cutter, but also a healer, a shaman and folk hero in the making, impossible to ignore, yet hardly husband material compared to Tomas Agustin, landowner, even if down-and-out.

Jealous of the young healer’s appeal to the Madrigal women (the grandmother taught the youth to read and write, the granddaughter taught him to play and touch) and desperate to marry Asuncion for her money Tomas Agustin takes matters (the Madrigals, actually) into his own hands, eventually driving Isio into the jungles and up a volcano in search of Utopia, but not before Asuncion and Isio manage to steal away for some great sex, in some beach, for some nine days, a novena of sorts for the intention of Agustin’s unborn conceived in rape.

He fell exhausted, weeping, and she did a strange thing; she lifted her head a little and bit the hard, firm muscle above his collarbone, gently, prolonging the gesture as though she wanted to remain connected with his body, infinitely.

Unlike Rizal’s virtuous Maria Clara, Gamalinda’s Asuncion has a wild streak (something for sinful Pinays to identify with) that Agustin fails to tame and Isio fails to inflame enough to sweep her away. Like her son Felipe, Asuncion is torn, the triangle holds, even as both men rise to high political positions – Agustin becomes General, Isio becomes Pope – and engage in brutal war no longer out of jealousy or for revenge but out of ambition and for the prize of a dream Americanista republic.

Agustin and other Landlords had been falling over themselves to convince the general that the island—this island, forget the rest of the archipelago—should be accepted as a member of the American federation. This island alone, spliced and excised from its Pacific nook, and grafted onto the marveloustree of the American union, there to flourish and flower in stately progress. That’s what it is, thought the general: yet another attempt to let me know why the United States should accept the new and improved Cantonal Republic of Negros, sugar and all.

Isio, Pope, Supreme Power of God’s Republic on Earth who threw the friars and the civil guards out, is no less seduced by the American dream. Sorrow in our land, sorrow in our history, sorrow the handmaid of our memory. Sorrow because of sugar, bitterness, poverty and misery. Sorrow because of Spain. But now the Spanish empire is dead, and the United States of America, the greatest nation on earth, has recognized our republic. Long live the United States!

Had the girl of a hundred seventeen names run away with the Pope instead, she would have been Popess, and, who knows, God’s Republic on Earth might have flowered some under her miraculous thumb. But there’s only so much that miracles can do. In the long run, she could not have prevented the Pope from being set up (as in a C.I.A. operation) and she could not have stopped arrogant America from declaring war on the Pope and taking the island by force in the name of pacification and benevolent assimilation. In the landscape of despair, everything was a miracle. Even America.

It is a rare novel in the Philippines that tells the story of the Filipino-American war as seen through the eyes not of victorious colonizers but of the vanquished people who suffered through it. Gamalinda tells the story exceedingly well in marvelous Pinoy English that is now as much a language of misery and sorrow as the native tongues that English “exorcised” a hundred years ago.

Every island, every town, every tribe must have its stories to tell of the pain and shame of that disgraceful passage from Spanish colonization to Americanization. Stories that bear telling and retelling, the sooner to dispell the clouds obscuring that critical turn in our history, the sooner to confront ourselves and learn from our miserable mistakes.

Until then, in our landscape of despair, we will continue to believe in miracles – the quick if wondrous fix, á la EDSA.